


like to the gods

by havisham



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Artistic Liberties, Bathing/Washing, Canon Het Relationship, Doom, F/M, Female Friendship, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hektor and his men are bringing a glancing girl / from holy Thebe and from onflowing Plakia— / delicate Andromache on ships over the salt sea.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	like to the gods

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the prompt: _Andromache/Hector: This is what one needs to be a hero: courage even for the smallest acts._ But it wandered so much from the prompt that I'm almost embarrassed to note it. At least I got the ship in? 
> 
> So many thanks to Zopyrus for betaing this for me! 
> 
> Title and summary from Sappho, naturally.

Andromache was thirteen and unlucky. She was her father's only living child -- ten little rocks to mark the deaths of her other siblings, and a tomb for her mother. She was happier running through the dusty hills of her father's land than to stay inside, weaving, like a proper lady should. Her father did not raise his voice toward her, nor his hand. He had given up already. 

One day, she woke before anyone else and took her bow and arrows, and headed for the hills. She had good luck that day, and caught two rabbits. One of them she left at the altar of the Goddess -- which one, she did not know, only that upon a high, lonesome hill, someone long ago had carved out a idol in the shape of a woman, lush and heavy, where the goatherds would sometimes leave small pots of milk or honeycombs for good luck. 

As she poured the blood upon the altar, a hawk cried out overhead. Andromache smiled, and took it for a good sign. Perhaps she would dedicate her life to Artemis, and stay a virgin hunter for the end of her days. 

It was those pleasant thoughts that lead her home, on the heels of the sun. She stopped nearly at the door when she say a crowd of women, her dead mother’s handmaidens, who turned as a group to look at her. They had been waiting for her. Immediately, they seized her before she could slip inside the house, and began to cluck over the state of her hair and her skin, as brown as a peasant's. 

“O hoyden!” they said, dragging her to the bathhouse. “Don't you know that two youths, as handsome as princes, came to your father's house. (On their way, no doubt, to somewhere larger, finer place than this!)

Stop that yowling and that scratching, you wild cat! Don't you see that this could be the making of you?” 

“Stop!” Andromache screamed, as they poured soapy water over her head. 

Much later that night, Andromache made her way unsteadily to the hall where the guests were to dine. She had been pulled, prodded, primped, picked at until at last, exhausted, she had given up and let them shape her into what they wanted. Her reflection, on the polished bronze mirror they gave her, was unrecognizable. 

Taller than most girls her age, Andromache raised her head and looked around quickly as the door opened to let her in. Most of the gathered crowd were her father's warriors, or their ladies, people she had known for her whole life. There were only two strangers there, sitting in the place of honor, at her father's right side. One was dark and the other was light, their darker one was older -- he had already sprouted a beard. 

Now the attention was on her, Andromache looked down, directing her eyes modestly to the floor. 

She came to her father's table and said the correct things, looked as meek as she could. She did not look at the guests before they were introduced to her. Then, she could look at them, and she did. They were two noblemen from Troy, traveling to see an oracle. Andromache found that her attention wandered often to the eldest of the two, and found that he was not as handsome as reported. His nose was too big for his face, and there were freckles that dotted across his face. But his eyes, she decided, were kind. Though in them was a glint of sly good humor, to show that he knew what she was doing. 

Andromache was not the sort of girl indulge in fantasies about a handsome stranger coming in to wisk her away from a drab life. She knew too well how those stories ended -- a swollen belly and a despairing girl. She stared a little longer at the stranger, and frowned. _I am not afraid_ , she wanted to say. _I am almost pledged to Artemis. You cannot have me._

The stranger smiled and Andromache's frown deepened. 

Mix us more wine, said her father, and Andromache rose, her dinner (a piece of bread, a few olives) forgotten. Her hand brushed against the stranger’s, when she bent down to pour him another cup. Andromache sprang back, almost as if she had been stung by some wasp, and spilled wine over his fine, white chiton. 

Her father bawled her out, making the same noise as the dogs, but in midst of the chaos, the stranger held her hand for a moment, and they exchanged a startled look of recognition. I am Hector, he said, in a voice so low that only she could hear. It was not the name he had given to her father. Andromache nodded, bewildered. He seemed to think his name meant something. 

The next day, Hector and his companion were off, before even the light of dawn. Andromache had abandoned last night’s finery, and dressed in her oldest rags and took off for the hills for what felt like the last time. Her mind was blazing, with thoughts that would have been strange just yesterday. She was not surprised to see, just by her favorite tree, Hector was waiting. It was mostly a silent meeting, and he did not try to touch her. 

He only said, after what seemed a long, long time, “Will you wait for me?” 

Andromache said yes. To say otherwise was unthinkable. She looked down, wishing that she had something to give him, as a mark of their pledge, but she had nothing. So she bent down and picked a little red pebble from the ground and dropped into Hector’s open palm. 

He closed his hand over it, and put the pebble into the folds of his cloak. Then he whistled for his companion to come with their horses. Andromache watched as they mounted, and rode away. She and Hector exchanged no more words. He looked back only once, and she stood still, too proud to look away. 

 

* 

She did not expect him to return, and much less after she learned who he was and who his father was. A year passed, then another. Andromache grew taller. She did not visit the Goddess of the hill-side any longer, but instead she tried to learn the things that she had long neglected, the art of being a woman. Being a woman, she learned, was hard, and heart-breaking. One day, she looked down idly and saw a streak of blood running down her leg. She shrieked, thinking that she had been killed, only to have the other women laugh at her, before they taught her what to do now. 

Three years after Hector had come, a royal retinue filled up the courtyard of Andromache’s father’s house. A kohl-eyed courtier, nose high up in the air, read from a scroll. The scroll said, with many courteous words and flourishes, greeted Eetion, King of Thebes, from Priam, King of Troy, and asked for the hand of Andromache, daughter of Eetion, in marriage for Hector, son of Priam. 

Pandemonium broke out at this announcement, with many people, dogs, horses, and a single goat, all wanting to react first. Andromache’s father shouted them all down (except the goat, who bleated defiantly) and asked the courtier to repeat himself, in case he had come to the wrong Thebes.

But there was no mistake. Hector, son of Priam, wished to marry Andromache, daughter of Eetion. What was Eetion's answer? Andromache's father shouted for Andromache to come forward, and she did, though not without difficulty, for she had been at the very back of the crowd when the scroll was read. 

"Andromache, do you know about this?" her father asked severely. 

Andromache looked to him -- she had grown so much that she no longer had to look up -- and said guardedly that she did. 

"What? How? Why?" 

"Father, surely you remember the two Trojan noblemen who visited us some years ago," Andromache said, aware that everyone -- her people and the the Trojans were looking at her with great interest. She tugged her shawl a little tighter against her chest and stood a little straighter. 

"But he neglected to mention that he was Hector, son of Priam," cried her aggrieved father. "I served him the table wine!" 

(Despite this, eventually Eetion agreed to the terms of the marriage, with Andromache's consent.)

* 

Hector had sent many gifts to Thebes, of riches that overwhelming her poor father, who had once been content enough to be the king of the other Thebes. He looked now for a wife of his own, and Andromache could not not fault him for his new optimism. 

But the chiefest gift Hector gave was himself -- he arrived in Thebes in the splendor benefiting a prince, and Andromache turned shy, almost, at seeing him. But he caught her eye and winked, and something in her eased. They held hands as the priest spoke the marriage oath, and Andromache remembered suddenly of the Goddess, standing desolate on her hill. _O holy daughter of Leto forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. I promise my first daughter to you._ Andromache opened her eyes again, but she had not been struck by Artemis' golden arrow, so that was all right. 

She did not see much of her new husband on the sea voyage to Troy. It was the first time she had been at sea, and she held on to the sides of the ship as much as she could, but the constant swelling, up and down, made her stay in the ship's cabin most of the time. 

There was a knock at the door, and a little head peeked in. It belonged to a girl, who hardly could have been more than six or seven. She was Cassandra, Hector's sister. Andromache motioned her to come to the bed, and after some moments of hesitation, Cassandra did so. They slept like that, curled up like kittens, for every night of the voyage. Cassandra, Andromache learned, hardly spoke at all, and never to strangers. But still, she stayed with Andromache, and for that, she was grateful. Sometimes, she would hear the door open and turn her face to it. Always it was Hector, who saw her and Cassandra. He would give her a soft smile before he left again. 

Andromache felt a slow burn of frustration burn in her gut. Why didn't he speak to her? They had hardly spoken two words the whole time, in between seeing each other again and speaking the wedding vows. She wondered if Hector was as silent as his sister. 

Cassandra stirred in her sleep.

"Only wait," she sighed, but Andromache hardly heard her. 

*

The first time Andromache saw the walls of Troy, she felt a tremor of fear that she did her best to hide. She looked proudly on, as if she wasn't a provincial princess come to the big city for the first time. And yet, she was, and it was. The procession going into the city was slow, hampered by many on-lookers, curious to see Hector's bride. 

Everything was done in grand style, in Troy. There were charioteers and maidens, flowers and the sound of the flute-playing, and the heat, so much heat that it made Andromache almost fainted before she came at last to be presented in front of Priam and Hecuba. She could not see them as Hector's parents then. Instead they seemed like on to the gods, as rich and as remote -- except Hecuba smiled suddenly, and Andromache recognized that smile as Hector's. 

* 

After the splendid cacophony of the city and court, the coolness of Hector's private chambers was a welcome relief. Andromache, tenderly prepared for her marriage bed, waited, a shade nervously. Something scratched at her back, and she reached over and drew out a thorn that had been attached to a rose petal that somehow the eagle eyed handmaidens had missed. 

She waited, until the muffled sounds of merriment outside, and the door opened. Hector was pushed in and the door closed again.

Andromache swallowed hard and tried to gather her wits about her. "My lord," she said, hoping her voice was not a squeak. "Will you come to me this night?" 

Hector stood still, his back against the door. It was the very first time Andromache had seen him since that fateful dinner. He looked older now than he had then, with more cares on his shoulders. His skin too, was browner, and hid his freckles well. From the way he looked at her, it was obvious that she was not the only one to take notice of any change. 

"Husband," Andromache said softly, "if husband you wish to be. Speak to me, I beg you." 

Hector drew closer to her, almost close enough to touch. "What do you wish me to say?" 

Andromache looked down. "You regret the promise you made me so long ago. I did not grow beautiful enough to be the wife of a prince of Troy." 

Hector touched her chin, and lifted it up, his large hand delicate against her skin. "To me, you are more beautiful than Helen." 

"Oh yes?" Andromache raised an eyebrow. "You have seen Helen of Sparta?" 

"No," Hector admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "But I know, all the same." 

She laughed, and the tension between them broke. Soon, it was easy to talk, and they did, for the whole night. The big bed was theirs for the taking, and they sprawled on it, discussing whatever it struck them as relevant. Likes and dislikes. Childhood fancies. Favorite foods. Anything. Nothing. Everything. And they touched, casually at first, before that became caresses. Andromache glanced at the window and was surprised to see it lit by the dawning sun. 

"Hector," she said, touching his arm, for he had fallen asleep at some point. "You must do it now, for when they check, there must be blood on the sheets." 

"It will hurt you at first," Hector said slowly, coming out of his slumber to look at her. "But then there will be pleasure." 

Andromache ran a tentative hand through his thick, black hair. She swallowed, remembering to be brave. "You do what you must." 

*

He was right, it did hurt.

And there was pleasure, of a kind, after. 

 

* 

Andromache knew she was lucky. Her husband was kind, and his family generous. They embraced her, though she remained closest to Cassandra, who would wander into Andromache's rooms in the mornings and stay with her all day. She communicated with a system of hand signals that Andromache took pains to learn -- Hector, when he came, would teach her some of it too. They did not speak of Cassandra's curse, or how it came about. It was enough to be with Cassandra, and let her speak and be believed. 

These were the happiest days of Andromache's life. 

* 

She became pregnant less than a year after her marriage. She and Hector were made much of, and all the soothsayers predicted that the child (a boy, naturally) would be the greatest warrior, the greatest king that Troy had ever seen. One day, Andromache woke in a patch of blood. 

It was the same day that Paris returned to Troy. 

* 

Paris was charming, there was something about him that made even women long-married turn their eyes toward him. He was as beautiful as a young god, and he had the arrogance to match. It was difficult to believe that he had been raised to be a goatherd, for surely he was always a prince. 

Andromache feel it too, the heat of his charm, but she was repulsed by it. 

Paris was not Hector. 

* 

"You could put me aside, you know," Andromache said to Hector, when it happened again. She kept her voice steady, her eyes on the oil lamp that burned on the table beside their bed. There were only a few hours left before he would go to sea with Paris in tow. He did not look at her, but she could tell that he was angry, for the first time, at her. She had seen Hector’s anger before, mostly at the cruelty that others showed -- once he had run out and rescued a horse from his master, who had been intent on beating the animal to death. In his blind rage, the man raised his hand to Hector himself, but soon came to his senses. 

This anger felt different, not righteous. The silence between them grew until it seemed to take up their spacious room, pushing them against the wall. 

“If that is your wish,” Hector said coldly, proud as if he were a stranger, Priam’s son and not her husband. 

Andromache felt her heart twist in her chest and she could not help but say: “It is not my wish.” 

He looked at her then, with curiosity and caution both. “Then why?” 

“They say I am barren,” Andromache said steadily. “If you were married to someone else, you would have already many sons. You cannot say that you have not heard such talk every day at court.” 

“The court talks every day of things of little consequence. If I should listen to all who say -- Andromache, my love, listen to me --” He took hold of her hand, anchoring her to him, and she allowed it, allowed herself to twine around him like a vine around a pillar. His next words were difficult to understand, for his mouth touched hers, and kisses were so much more desired than words -- useless words! Desire thrummed through her veins and she pushed him down, and he went, with a groan. Andromache pushed aside her skirt, and slid down until she could feel the hardness of his cock brush against her thigh. He looked up at her, eyes wide, but yearning. 

For a while the push of bodies against each other, his trust meeting her push, was almost enough. Almost but not quite. 

Andromache rode him maddeningly close to completion -- but not quite -- there -- yet, she said, "O Hector, breaker of horses, tell me your decision." 

"I will not," he said, before she bent down and kissed him, her teeth lingering on his lower lip. She bit down, and he moaned and came in a rush. 

* 

Helen hummed under her breath as she worked, a song that Andromache did not know. She wove expertly, her eyes not leaving her work for more than a second at a time. The other women watched her, but no one would approach. Andromache stood among them, wondering what to do. Helen was nothing like she had expected her to be. Beautiful, yes, but --

Andromache had sought out her husband's eyes when she had been presented before the king. Hector gave a slight shrug. He didn't know what to make of her either. 

Helen was beautiful, and Andromache could believe easily that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, that her sire was Zeus. She burned brighter than other people, and her beauty was like fire, divine and destructive. But she was still a woman, still human, whatever her parentage. And when she looked upon them, upon Troy, she looked on them like an Achaean would -- like a Spartan would.

It was obvious that Paris loved -- not her, no, but the idea of owning her. What Helen felt of Paris was much more difficult to grasp. Already, rumors had spread of why she had come with them, how Paris had sat in judgement of Hera, Aphrodite and Athena, and had received as his prize, the most beautiful woman the the world. 

Helen accepted Priam's protection with a bow. A sigh ran through the crowd. 

That was how Helen conquered Troy. 

But still, no one would approach her. Andromache felt someone push against her back. She turned her head to see Cassandra. Cassandra rolled her eyes and gestured to Helen. _Go to her._

Andromache wanted to push back, say no. But already, she was moving forward, until she came to the handloom next to Helen, and sat down to work. Helen did not speak. Neither did Andromache. Eventually, the others tired of watching and went back to their tasks. 

Helen and Andromache worked next to each other for the next few days, trading no more words than necessary -- _could you pass me that thread? What do you think of this color? This will be pretty when it's finished, won't it?_ Andromache was about to ask Helen if she had seen her shuttle when Helen said, "Well, out with it." 

Andromache looked at her, startled. "Out with what?"

Helen gave her a tired look. "What you want to know. What they all want to know. How could I leave my husband to go with Paris? Have I no shame? No self-respect? What say you, wife of Hector?" 

"I expect you had your reasons," Andromache said stiffly. 

"I didn't love Menelaus." 

"Well, there you are." 

"His breath always smelled of rotting teeth. He kicked in bed. He had warts on his back." Helen frowned. "It was not my choice to marry him. My sister and her husband saw to that." 

“Oh?” Andromache said, “I have heard that you picked him yourself.” 

Helen smiled, but only with her teeth. “They were merely very persuasive, though now I wonder if my sister only wished that my husband should never outrank hers. Anyway, that was years ago and I was a hysterical young girl, who _hardly_ knew her own mind. How could I have chosen wisely?” 

Andromache snorted sharply and Helen’s mouth twitched upward. 

"But then Paris, he must have seemed...?" Andromache said, despite herself. 

"Oh, yes! He seemed so… Well, he was _there_ and -- I was so desperate to be away! Your dear husband wanted to leave me on the next island, once he knew I was aboard." The look Helen gave her was cool, measuring. "I suppose he has never done anything wrong for love."

Andromache considered this. "I have heard it said that he would sometimes treat his lover coldly, but that was before I knew him." 

Helen was quiet for a moment, before she burst out laughing, startling them both. After a moment, Andromache joined along. Suddenly, Helen reached out and squeezed Andromache's shoulder. "I do not know if I love Paris. I am grateful to him, however. Do you love Hector?"

"Yes," Andromache said instantly. 

"Ah," Helen said, sitting back. "You see. I have never loved anyone." She frowned, and amended, "save my daughter only. I miss her." She seemed surprised at the presence of tears on her cheek, but Andromache was not. 

Helen sat stiff and surprised when Andromache embraced her, until, tentatively, she hugged her back. 

* 

"Will you not speak to me, sister?" Paris' voice, musical and light, stopped Andromache in her tracks. She had spent the night at the bedside of Hecuba -- the Queen suffered a summer cold, an inconsequential illness, but she did fuss so -- and did not wish to be left alone. As the wife of her eldest son, the duty fell on Andromache to tend to her. At dawn, she was released, and was making her way back to her rooms when Paris stopped her. 

He leaned against a pillar, and looked conspicuously handsome. 

Some what impatiently, Andromache said, "Apologies, brother. I have not had much time lately to talk. The war brings so many new duties. How are you?" 

"I am as well as can be imagined," Paris said with a pained sigh. His face, an image of suffering, sharpened a little then. "I was wondering if you could speak to my brother about something." 

"What is it?" 

"Let me march out with him, let me fight! He underestimates me, you know." 

"Paris," Andromache said carefully, "surely you know that my husband does not take marching orders from me." 

"Oh, but he _listens_ to you. Everyone knows that! Will you champion for me, Andromache?" Paris abruptly took Andromache's hands and put it this face. He looked at her pleadingly. "Or do you hate me? Do you think, as some do, that I should have died, when they left me on that mountainside?" 

Andromache winced. "Oh, no, of course not, Paris. What a terrible thing that was. I know Hector loves you well. I will speak to him." 

"Thank you!" Paris leaned down and kissed Andromache on the mouth in his exuberance. "Tell him I have been practicing. My aim has never been better!" 

* 

"No," Hector said, and leaned back into the tub. It was winter, and the Achaeans had withdrawn back to their ships and the the Trojans to the city. Andromache had not see Hector for what seemed years, but was, in reality, six months. To see a grim-faced warrior, splattered in dried blood and gore, become gradually, after many buckets of water, her husband again -- that was an absorbing process. Andromache did not allow the servants to do it, but only rang if she needed more water or soap. 

Now, she sat on a stool and began to wash Hector's hair. 

"Why not?" she asked. "Paris is getting better at fighting, there is no doubt about that. What harm could it do?" 

"I am surprised that he wishes to be apart from Helen so long." 

"Mm. Well, they've quarreled again, you know. And do they not say that absence makes the heart grow fonder... Tilt you head a bit. This way." 

Hector did. "He is a liability. Our father understands this, and I stand with him."

"He is _bored_. I'm afraid what he will do without any distractions." 

"Let Paris find entertainment some other way. Isn’t Helen enough?"

 

Andromache wiped the sweat from her brow and looked down at him. Hector looked up at her. She went on untangling the snarls in his hair. She dropped her eyes and said, "Have you thought that perhaps, if he had grown up with you, he would have been -- well, different?" 

"I did not get a say in my brother's fate, love." 

"No, of course not, you were but a child yourself.” 

"I remember that my mother wept over it for days. She brought in augur after augur, but all had the same prediction. Paris would bring the end of Troy." He lifted his hands up from the water. "And here we are -- seven years of this, and more to come." 

"Those that the gods save, men cannot kill," Andromache said absently. "Until it is their time." 

"Indeed." 

She washed the last of the soap from Hector's hair and called for their servants to come with the towels to dry him. He rose from the tub with a groan and waved off offers for him to dress. The servants withdrew quietly, until it was only the two of them again. To hell with Paris, she thought, as Hector dropped the last towel on the ground and turned to beckon her closer. He said, “I have heard that you have other advice for me, besides what to do with my useless brother…” 

* 

Every time she saw him off, she thought, he will die, this is the last time I will see him. Every time he returned to her, she distrusted her happiness. No one would admit it openly, but as war grew longer and longer -- there were children who could not remember the time before the war, as if the war was all that there was, all that there could be -- and food grew more scarce. The poor in the lower city starved. And still, the war ground on. 

* 

Even when Hector would return from battle, they would not speak of _him_. Achilles, son of Peleus. His name was never mentioned. Not once.

*

Andromache trained herself not to flinch at the thought of that imagined blow, of learning that Hector was dead. She was so deeply immersed in her thoughts that she hardly noticed Helen come next to her and put an arm around her waist. 

The wind blew hot upon the walls of Troy, bringing with it the smell of the battlefield. Helen wrinkled her nose and said, "Come, let us go to the Queen's garden. The novelty of this --" she gestured to the battle below -- "has worn off long ago." 

"Helen," Andromache said with a sigh. 

"Come, sister," Helen said, a softly pleading tone in her voice. "We haven't talked in so long. I begin to fear that you have grown to hate me." 

“Helen, dear, you have known me for many years now,” Andromache said, her eyes still trained to the horizon. “Must you still resort to such cheap dramatics? Of course I care for you.” 

Helen took Andromache’s chin and gently turned her head to her own direction. “My darling,” Helen purred, “I live for cheap dramatics. Now, come on. You look like you could use a cool drink." 

Andromache had to agree. Overhead, there was lone, sharp call of a hawk, swooping for the kill. Andromache and Helen walked down the stone steps, into the shaded quiet of Hecuba’s garden. 

* 

The baby was born after ten hours of labor. _I will die, I will die, I will die._ Andromache stared at particular crack in the ceiling. She wondered idly how long this one would live. 

* 

Astyanax liked to wander -- there was no small nook or awkward space that could be ruled out as a hiding place for him. This afternoon, Andromache was looking for him impatiently. How could a child who had just learned to walk be so difficult to find! If she was still looking by the time Hector returned… 

She heard a shriek and crash coming from one of the rooms ahead. Racing forward, she saw Hector, still helmeted and armored from battle, and Astyanax, on the floor in front of him, in a flood of tears. 

“For the love of --!” Andromache scooped Astyanax up in her arms and glared at her husband. “Take that thing off.” 

“I was going to -- but he appeared from nowhere,” Hector said, taking off his helmet. 

Astyanax hid his face in Andromache’s hair, but he had stopped crying. Careful not to startle him, Andromache gestured to Hector to come closer. He did, quietly, and when at last Andromache handed him the baby, there were no tears. Instead, Astyanax looked up at his father, tiny mouth open, and Hector looked down at him, with a similar expression on his face. 

Andromache stood back for a moment and felt nothing but relief. If only this moment could last forever! But of course, it could not. Astyanax began to wiggle in Hector’s arms, his expression urgent. Andromache took him back from Hector with a contented sigh. 

They shared a look between them, deeper than happiness and more broad.


End file.
